Could You Survive a Year Without Shopping?

How my family and I weaned ourselves from the "goods" life — and found a richer one

Wearing a grimace reminiscent of my husband's when he changed our firstborn's diaper, I pulled huge wads of dust, dog hair, loose Cheerios, and other gunk from the vacuum bag and put them into the trash. Then I went back inside the house to staple the bag shut and reinsert it into the vacuum. In the kitchen, our middle daughter, Sage, then 7, had just discovered some cotton stuffing in a jar of vitamin C tablets and was waving it elatedly in front of her two sisters, Laugan, 4, and Jenna, 10. "We can use these as cotton balls!" We all let out a whoop. Four months of turning toilet paper into pads to remove nail polish had taken its toll. My husband, Tim, looked up from the mug he'd been gluing back together. "Hey, there are more jars upstairs in the medicine cabinet," he said encouragingly, and the girls raced upstairs to retrieve them.

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What would motivate our family to rejoice in bits of fluff pulled from plastic jars? A self-imposed shopping hiatus — to tame our impulse buying and refocus our energy on things that gave all of us greater contentment. In a word: happiness. Or the quest for it.

Since hopping onto the professional fast track after college graduation 15 years earlier, Tim and I had been dedicated accumulators of the consumer parade of hip clothes, sports cars, and electronic toys. Tim's high-tech marketing position and my legal work gave us financial resources to afford a nice house in Portland, OR, and all the toys we "needed" to fill it. And somewhere along the line, our free time had turned primarily into purchase time. While once we'd spent lazy afternoons reading in the park, we now spent them shuffling through stores in search of that spiffy new stereo (you know, the one that plays five CDs instead of three) or a stylish coffee table to replace the nicked-up wooden one. When we weren't acquiring these treasures, we were working to afford, maintain, and rearrange them — and, ultimately, shuffle them off to Goodwill or storage. Gradually, it became clear: All this stuff we'd so avidly acquired was siphoning off time and money, along with our joie de vivre.

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Of course, we had wake-up calls along the way. There was the voluntary-simplicity class our friend Sadhana (plying us with steaming bowls of spicy Indian food) coerced Tim and me into taking. For several weeks, we explored how consumer marketing made us feel we were going to miss the boat if we didn't quickly climb aboard. After the class, I was driving past Target and told my then-5-year-old, Jenna, that I needed to buy a gift for a friend but was just too busy that day. With a deadpan face she advised, "Don't wait; act now." Point taken.

Tim and I often vowed to pay the credit card balances we had stacked up from "very affordable" purchases, but some unanticipated household expense — a radiator leak or furnace hiccup — always kept us from doing that. Or so we believed; our realization that there was only one way to get them down to zero came much later (and inspired a massive cut-up-your-credit-cards party). Red flags also waved in the breeze of our supposed material bliss — like the time I hunted through our biggest mall, with two increasingly agitated toddlers in tow, searching for that perfect crisp white blouse, only to discover at the dry cleaner's a virtually identical one I'd left there over five months earlier.

And so, in 2003, our family embarked on an experiment: For 12 months we'd refuse to give in to these perpetual wants and purchase only edibles or depletables (things we used up, such as shampoo or gasoline). During the two-week debate over whether we would actually do this crazy thing, Tim and our money-savvy middle child, Sage, reflected on how much we'd actually save in a whole year, while our preteen, Jenna, considered it as potential material for her burgeoning writing career.

"I don't think lightbulbs should be allowed," Sage remarked during one dinnertime debate. "They don't disappear. Isn't that more like disposable?" I could tell by the dollar signs in her eyes that she'd become a die-hard advocate for Extreme Makeover — Frugal Edition.

"I think those items are both depletable, because the usefulness is completely extinguished," offered Tim, "but I'm still not sure I want to go a whole year without new clothes, shoes, contact lenses — anything I can't use up completely." Everyone seemed to be nodding at this.

"I think cold turkey is the only way," I argued. "We've tried reducing our shopping and it's just too easy to slip back into it." Only Laugan, our youngest, seemed blissfully oblivious to the ongoing discussion: When asked what her vote would be, she recited her phone number. Bouncing ideas around until the final vote, we concluded that we'd make allowances for items required by work or school — like printer paper for me, office equipment for Tim, and school supplies for the girls — but vetoed any prepurchasing before our February 1 start date.

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"Not even if we're going to run out of underwear at some point?" asked Jenna, ever practical.

"I guess not," I replied. I was beginning to feel bigger waves of hesitation roll over my certainty, but I knew that making multiple exceptions would dilute the whole experiment, and then what would be the point? As the day of the vote approached, I found myself needing some added incentive. "Maybe we could all go to Hawaii with the money we save," I said, and tipped the scales toward a unanimous, albeit nervous, yes. (Laugan held out until we confirmed that candy would be allowed.)

Though my constant reassurances — "This will be fun" — helped persuade Tim and the girls, the next day I woke up panic-stricken. In the rush of attempting to convince my family of the "incredible things we would learn," I had failed to grasp the reality of what we were attempting. A trip to the market did little to assuage my fears. Were resealable plastic lunch bags depletable? (We decided they weren't, and began converting the ones used to bag our produce.) Candles? Not that we needed them, having resolved the lightbulb debate, but I was becoming uncomfortably aware of items that might or might not fall into the depletable category. Oh no, razors! I pictured myself a year from now, a muttering remnant of a woman with a tattered skirt clinging to my hairy legs.

At the checkout counter, Sage's bright eyes stared up at me as she asked, "Can I have gum?" My crumbling will began to form the word "sure" when her little friend piped up: "That's not depletable." Or edible, I was about to add, when Sage quickly agreed and solemnly stuck the pack back on the shelf, making me aware of how much my family wanted to be true to this experiment.

The next big lesson came only weeks later when Jenna returned from school complaining that her sneakers were too tight. "Do you have any others?" I asked, but got only a shake of her head. "Well..." I glanced around our tiny foyer, with the futile hopefulness of the truly desperate. Then a thought struck me. "What size are you?" After establishing that her foot was only slightly smaller than my own, I raced upstairs to the attic to find a pair of rainbow-striped tennis shoes, one of my fashion faux pas; they were also too tight for me. As Jenna danced around in "new" shoes, I sat dumbfounded that no-buy solutions could be right under our roof. When had we started assuming that everything had to be purchased?

We began to look at items we already owned with new reverence. We dug out pristine white medical tape and sterile gauze from an unused first-aid kit to serve as bandages if our supplies ran out (they never did). My discovery of a huge bag of disposable razors stuffed under supplies in our bathroom drawer made me positively jubilant. "How long does one of these actually last?" I found myself asking Tim, who shrugged. I did a quick online search: Most sources said a few shaves, but we observed that one disposable razor will flick away stubble from face and legs for at least a month without dulling. Had we just been tossing them on a whim before?

While I wouldn't have characterized myself as a runaway shopper, I noticed how often my thoughts were snagged by suggestions of potential purchases. Leaving the house, I'd wonder whether a new blue glazed pot would accent the porch; making our bed, I'd ask myself if it was finally time to order new sheets; setting the table, I'd think that empty expanse simply begged for a cute runner like one I'd just seen in a catalog. It wasn't until our experimental year that I began to take note of these intrusive thoughts, quieting each one long enough to discover that a terra-cotta pot under our deck could be cleaned up and filled with plants from our yard, that old sheets were more soft and comfortable, that one Saturday's labor could transform a piece of cloth and beads into a table decoration — and felt those urgent wants peacefully floating away.

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With this new perspective, we began to seek ways of repurposing things we owned instead of rushing to the store to pick up replacements (in bulk). When Sage wanted a new writing journal, her older sister bequeathed several previously purchased notebooks (some with only the first few pages filled in). Less time at the mall meant more time for mastering fix-it projects: When a small glass windowpane in our downstairs playroom cracked, we repaired it with the glass from a broken picture frame that we'd meant to throw away. When Tim found a hole in his sock, I took the opportunity to teach everyone the lost art of darning, using an old lightbulb to keep the sock filled out while we stitched. Instead of buying birdseed (though quite depletable), we filled the feeder with packet after packet of outdated garden seeds a relative left for us. As we sifted through them, Laugan suddenly made a connection: "Hey, this is a pumpkin seed! Is that where pumpkins come from?"

While we rarely "slipped" and bought things outside our no-buy parameters, there were a few occasions when we fudged the definition of "depletable": to purchase paper plates (for a big summer party) or wine in exchange for a relative's gift of a turkey pan at Thanksgiving. We treated these "lapses" as reminders that we had to be more diligent if we were going to make it through the whole year. We also took ourselves on more outings than we had in the past — roller-skating, movies, and restaurant meals. But these added excursions never seemed to deplete our funds as much as had our shopping quests for some "gotta find it" item. The extra $500 we consistently had in our bank account after paying bills each month meant I could stop worrying whether we were exceeding our income. The girls, once eager for their allowances, forgot about them. When I handed them the cash, I'd often hear, "Didn't you already give us this?"

The trickiest challenge by far: tackling the holidays. In years past, we'd marked them by the extravagance of the bounty. Our shopping hiatus allowed us to rethink some calcified assumptions. Instead of filling Easter baskets with store-bought trinkets, we filled them with real grass from our yard, edible delights such as chocolate bunnies and jelly beans, handmade necklaces from a friend's beading kit, and bubble wands and suds I discovered while cleaning out a closet.

When winter loomed, we wondered how Father Christmas could work his magic without a mall. I'd begun to notice the generous flow of objects that came into our lives, from grandparents or as a thank-you for a favor. Tim and I tucked them away for Christmas Eve, along with other items — from books and clothes I purchased with trade-in credit at secondhand stores to games and tennis racquets Tim found when he cleaned out an old storage unit. My friend Kami suggested we secretly gather items from our homes that would work well for each other's daughters and increase Santa's bounty. A French-language CD, nail polish, American Girl books, and jewelry — all unused or forgotten — could be given new life by someone else's child.

In place of stress-filled shopping trips, the holidays found us lingering over hot cider with the new neighbors. On Christmas Eve Tim and I chuckled over our creation of a snowman ornament from Laugan's wish list by gluing beads onto balls of white yarn and forming a top hat from the black foam of a headset. Christmas morning, the girls awoke to a spread of Santa presents encircling a glistening tree cut from a nearby lot that was due to be cleared for construction. "How did all this happen?" Jenna whispered, holding a cell phone (given to me when I helped a friend move). She later declared it her favorite holiday yet.

At the outset, friends and family expressed skepticism about our motivations (my parents thought for sure we were destitute) and our chances of success (a few later confessed, "We really didn't think you would make it"). But a surprising amount of support surfaced along the way, from inquiries about what we might need to hand-me-downs and gift cards. We soon realized how this endeavor would have been impossible without a connected and generous community.

As the year drew to a close, people asked what "non-depletable" we'd buy first. None of us had an answer — we'd gotten so far out of the habit we simply hadn't considered it. The uneventful first purchase turned out to be dress socks for Tim. There was no turning back. While we did make occasional purchases — vacuum bags are still my favorite "luxury" — we'd become so enamored of our streamlined life that we wanted to keep spending minimal. Our perceptions had so changed that when Sage noticed a sign in a restaurant — "Use it up. Wear it out. Make it do. Or do without" — she said, "Hey, that's us!" Five years later, the recession has brought economic turmoil to the country. But though we pay more for food, heating oil, and gasoline, we've seen relatively little change in our day-to-day existence.

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Perhaps the greatest lesson of our experiment was realizing that the act of buying things, exciting as it can be at times, is rarely as nice or interesting as the alternatives. Having time free of shopping is empowering. For example, Sage recently transformed a long skirt worn by my grandmother into a cute mini. When I asked where she had learned to alter clothes, she replied, "Nowhere. I just did it." We celebrate family birthdays by giving each other a "special day" in which the "queen" or "king" can dictate the day's activities. Some of the more popular "commands" are donuts for breakfast, go-karting, double-feature movies, and ice cream for dinner. The lawn mower we share with our neighbors, Joan and John, is a constant source of bonding as passing it back and forth often results in impromptu conversations and get-togethers.

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The other day, I asked Tim what kinds of things he thought we do because we don't go shopping. "Well, today's a good example," he said, motioning around the kitchen and family room, where Jenna was baking a pie, Laugan and two friends were playing Apples to Apples, and Sage was practicing dance for a team tryout. Soon we'd all walk that pie over to Joan's house to celebrate her birthday. "I think we just do more living."

I felt our family was too fixated on things, always bopping from one store to another. Then, in 2007, my husband, Jon, and I each bought an SUV. And we went to Florida for a beach vacation, yet we spent most of our time shopping. I just felt it was excessive. I wanted to shift the focus from "stuff" to one another, and I knew it would take something extreme. I'm writing about it now.

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Did you set ground rules?

Basically, anything we could hold in our hands was off-limits, except food and medicines. If something wore out or broke, like an electronic picture frame, we didn't replace it. Family entertainment was acceptable, so we took some trips and ate at nice restaurants.

How did your kids react?

Zoe, who was 8, bought into it immediately. Avi, the 5-year-old, cried when I said we weren't going to buy any baby dolls for a year. She asked if she was being punished, if she needed to go see Mr. Baker, the lower-school principal. Jon was the hardest to sell, but once he saw the positive effects it was having on the kids, he took off with it.

Why did he initially balk?

He thought, he works hard — he's an attorney — and if there's something he wants, then why shouldn't he buy it?

First sale you resisted?

A friend called to say there was a great sale on Seven jeans. Normally I'd have gone. Instead, the kids and I spent the afternoon painting together.

How much did you save?

For us, this wasn't just about money. But Jon turned 40, and I'd have gotten him a great present. We had our 15th anniversary, and jewelry would have been in the picture. When the TV broke, we'd probably have replaced it with a flat-screen. I can say with 100 percent certainty that we saved $10,000.

Any rules you relaxed?

We went camping, and Jon bought new sleeping bags. He justified it by saying it was cheaper than what we'd spend on an expensive hotel room.

Biggest boost?

I love that my kids signed on, and how quickly they stopped asking for stuff.

"It's no longer flying out of the wallet" — Mavis Fowler-Williams, lawyer, 46, New York City; one son, 6; one daughter, 4

Why did you decide to stop shopping?

To hang on to our money as long as we could. I was laid off at the end of last year, but we'd already begun to cut back.

Did you make a plan?

Yes. My husband, Windell, and I have two kids in private school, and that's one thing we won't sacrifice. Anything else is negotiable. We went from eating out a few times a week to, at most, Friday-night pizza. Also, I used to spend a lot, not at exciting places like Saks Fifth Avenue, but at stores like CVS. I'd go in to get one thing and come out with 20. Part of our talk was about using cash so we're less likely to overspend. Our goal now is just to hold on with unemployment benefits and savings until I get a job. Once I do, I want to continue the plan — maybe allow for celebrations, but be very mindful and conservative.

Where have you saved?

I canceled a gym membership that cost almost $200 a month. I haven't bought clothes, whereas in the past I'd spend easily $3,000 a year. My husband wears Gap, but even that stuff adds up, so we've saved about $1,000 on him. One substantial thing was the kids' Christmas presents. In previous years, I spent about $1,000, but last season? Maybe $100.

Have your feelings about money and stuff evolved?

Knowing how much we can cut back feels empowering. Even though I don't have as much money coming in right now, I feel I have more control over it. It's no longer flying out of the wallet.

What do you miss most?

Restaurants. I've always thought of going to a restaurant as a mini-vacation. It's not purely stuffing your face because you're hungry. It's bumping into friends, hanging out, being out and about — and we love trying different types of food. The easiest, and most therapeutic, sacrifice was that tendency to buy 20 things instead of one. I've refocused my shopping mentality. It was like a cleansing.

Have you felt other benefits from eating at home?

Absolutely. Windell is a wonderful cook, and he does all the cooking. I know it's healthy, I love the taste, and he prepares things the way we like them. Also, we're making less and not throwing out as much. And while a restaurant has a social aspect, when you're home, it's your dynamic. I think we have a different quality of conversation with the kids — there's more peace, more focus. It's much more intimate.

What's your biggest insight to date?

"Not buying" really opened my eyes to all the things we can do that don't cost a cent. I mean, you can take your kids to the park around the clock. Practically every day now, at least once, I'll just sit there and look at my kids. I'm smiling and happy, and it's simple and pure, and there's no dollar sign you can put on that.